


Omne Trium Perfectum

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His throat is dry and his voice rasps. “You have John.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“And he’s making us breakfast. What do you deduce about that?” </i></p><p> </p><p>Every set of three is complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to thescienceofobsession for her beta work! 
> 
> This fic is nine chapters and will be published in sets of three, with one chapter per set from each character's POV. It is complete but being posted in chapters.

It was nineteen days of nonstop running. Moriarty returned, because if Sherlock was able to see all the chess moves to the very end and fake his own death, of course Moriarty was able to as well, and brought chaos with him. Sherlock and John ran and ran. They chased and they hunted. Mycroft had a team of snipers and men-in-black at the ready but they were always a step behind. In the end it was John that took the final shot, and there was no resurrection waiting for Moriarty this time. 

Mary, bless her, had run 221b like a black ops command center. With her credentials, Sherlock trusted her enough to do some of the intuitive thinking. She could kill and she instinctively read people as well as Sherlock could deduce them. It was an unspoken agreement that between them, John would return home safe. 

_Eventually_ return home safe, if Mycroft’s debriefing team would ever release them. Sherlock’s patience was wearing thin. The bags under John’s eyes and the wrinkles in his shirt tell Sherlock he needs a shower and then a warm bed. Well, probably food first. He hasn’t allowed John more than a quickly-grabbed snack from Mary’s supply at 221b in two days. So, food first, then a shower, then sleep. For John. Sherlock doesn’t require these concessions to his transport; he’ll participate because it will make John feel better. 

They are finally sent on their way. Mycroft insists on a car and Sherlock only agrees because John looks exhausted now. The car takes them to a curry shoppe, which was not actually on the way to Baker Street but it is John’s favorite and they might as well use the car anyway. Sherlock orders an extra green curry for Mary without John needing to remind him. He earns a tired smile for that. 

John calls to Mary as he climbs the stairs behind Sherlock. She doesn’t answer but they find her curled into a ball, square in the middle of Sherlock’s bed, clutching the duvet to her chin. 

Running isn’t the only exhausting activity, apparently.

“Let’s let her sleep for awhile. Her curry can wait,” John says as he pulls the door closed. 

They eat in silence sitting next to each other on the sofa, knees bumping and thighs pressed together. There’s a rhythm in their forks scratching against the foil bottoms of their takeaway bowls. John finishes first and Sherlock abandons the rest of his curry on the coffee table. 

“You could shower. Mary has fresh clothes for you in the duffle next to your chair.” 

John slumps further into the sofa next to him. “I don’t want to shower.” John closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of the sofa. “I just want to sleep.” 

Sherlock falters, thinks of Mary sleeping soundly in the center of his bed, and then rises from the sofa. He nods toward the closed bedroom door. “Go sleep with Mary. I’ll just…” he gestured vaguely to the sofa, “...here.” 

John snorts and opens his eyes to stare at Sherlock. “You won’t sleep if I leave you alone and we both know it.” 

“I will. I just need to do some mental housekeeping first.”

“You won’t sleep.”

“I will.” 

John heaves a great sigh and pulls himself to standing. His knees creak and he scrubs a hand over his face. “There’s no point in arguing with you-”

“-Of course there isn’t.”

“So, let’s just go to bed.” 

It’s like Sherlock’s already overtired brain stutters to a halt. He blinks. He slides his hands in his pockets then takes them out again. “I’m sor- what?” 

“I said let’s just go to bed.” 

“I heard you. I’m trying to get you to go!”

John crosses to the bedroom door and nudges it open. He angles his head toward the room. “Come on,” his voice is lowered in respect to Mary sleeping inside, “we do everything else together. We might as well kip together after saving London.” 

Sherlock stays standing still next to the sofa while John smiles softly and ducks into the bedroom. He leaves the door cracked open and Sherlock studies that sliver of dark, open space and his heart pounds. Three, four beats hammer in his head before his feet move him forward. Sherlock pushes the door wider with his right hand, then steps in one foot at a time. It’s easier if he can cross that threshold in pieces. Take his time grasping at something precious and probably not what John means at all. 

John is already under the duvet, spooned behind Mary. He’s down to his vest and Sherlock can see where one bare foot peaks out from the side of the bed. His ankle is slender and the bedside light Mary must have left on catches the golden hair there. John’s eyes are still open but he doesn’t say anything as Sherlock crosses to the opposite side of the bed. 

He shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Normally, he would hang it right away but there’s an irrepressible fear that if he looks away from this tableau, from the Watsons in his bed, they’ll disappear for good. He sits on the edge of the mattress, still turned so he can see them both out of the corner of his eye, to remove his shoes. Sherlock lies flat on his back on top of the duvet and folds his hands over his stomach. 

The bed is big enough to hold all three of them, but it’s a tight fit. John and Mary are sandwiched together and Sherlock can still feel her breath fan against his cheek. He normally sprawls, takes over his bed like an invading army, but this time he wills himself to stay very still and to only occupy the real estate left available. If he slides over just three point two inches, his hip would be against the swell of Mary’s belly. 

He’s settling into the mattress, tension leaving his shoulders and hips as he forces his breath to remain even, when Mary reaches out and wraps her fingers around his bicep. Sherlock’s head whips to the right but Mary’s still asleep - at least her eyes are closed and she looks to be asleep. Her grip is strong against his arm and she may be the only person that could fool him. Her eyelashes fan across her cheeks and Sherlock wishes he could run the pad of his finger across them. 

“Go to sleep,” John rumbles from the other side of Mary’s shoulder. Sherlock can see the curve of his ear, turned pink by the light glowing behind him. 

He never expected to have anyone - so much so that he was entirely caught by surprise by John’s care for him. He didn’t see it, couldn’t have predicted it before his fall, but since his return, Sherlock feels like he’s drowning in affection. Especially now that there are two of them. From the first night Sherlock met her, Mary has welcomed him with open arms. It was different than it was with John. He was better able to identify the warmth that spread across his chest when she would kiss his cheek or smile up at him, even when he knew he was being ridiculous. And now they’re here, all three of them, tucked into Sherlock’s bed like they belong there. _It’s only for tonight,_ Sherlock thinks. _It’s an oasis but not a place to live._

He’ll take and keep them both in any way they’ll have him. He loves them so much. 

“Turn out the light,” Sherlock whispers.


	2. Mary

Mary watches Sherlock’s eyes come open as if he had never been asleep, like the past seven hours had just been one prolonged blink. She tossed and turned for a portion of the night, having to rotate from one side to the other a few times, but Sherlock slept through it next to her. He’s even turned in his sleep so that he’s on his side facing her. She’s rolled back toward him, to watch him really, as he comes awake. 

He watches her for a moment and she just smiles back at him. 

“Where’s John?” Sherlock’s voice is deepened with sleep and disuse and Mary feels the thrill of being here with him all the way to the tips of her toes. 

“Making breakfast.” Her smile grows a little brighter. “Eggs and bacon, by the smell of it.” 

Sherlock’s nose and brow crinkle together in that way that makes Mary want to kiss the spot between his eyebrows. “I’m sure I didn’t have any of that in.” 

“I went to the shops while you and John were finishing up with Mycroft.” 

Sherlock’s confusion fades and he smiles back at her. “The ever practical and efficient Mary.” 

“And hungry. I am eating for two if you remember.” 

“Not for much longer.”

“A few weeks more, I hope.” 

They lie there, smiling, and comfortable in each other’s presence for a few moments. Mary’s knees are a few inches above Sherlock’s thighs and she could easily reach out and take his hand, if she weren’t sure she would spook him. 

The spooking happens anyway. She sees it in Sherlock’s eyes as vividly as a panic button being pushed. He bolts upright in the bed next to her and only years of repressed reflexes keep her from flinching. 

“I should go,” he nervously stammers out, spinning to place his feet on the floor. 

“Why? It’s your bed.” 

Sherlock stops at that and looks back over his shoulder. “Why did you fall asleep in my bed?” 

Mary can’t keep the mischievous smile from her face. “Because I was tired.” 

“You could have slept on the sofa, or in the upstairs room, but you chose to fall asleep here.” 

“Your bed is more comfortable. And, I like the company more.” She has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing at the shocked look on his face. She pats the warm spot on the bed he’s just vacated. 

Sherlock lies back down, carefully curling himself around Mary’s still outstretched arm so that he doesn’t brush against her fingertips. “Why?” His throat is dry and his voice rasps. “You have John.”

“And he’s making us breakfast. What do you deduce about that?” 

Mary can see the facts falling into place in Sherlock’s mind, but before he can answer John is back in the bedroom. 

John comes to sit on the bed behind Mary. “Come on you lazy bones. Breakfast is getting cold.” He leans across her shoulder to kiss her cheekbone. Mary’s eyes fall shut and the warm, dry press of John’s lips settles against her skin. 

She opens her eyes as John pulls away to see him snake out a hand and pat Sherlock on the hip. Sherlock looks awed and confused. 

John helps Mary from the bed, as gracefully as she can get about at this point, and Sherlock follows them silently to the kitchen. 

Breakfast flows into discussions over the morning paper, to lunch, to an afternoon nap for Mary, another visit from Mycroft, and some fussing by Mrs. Hudson, and then suddenly it’s evening and John and Mary have spent the whole day in Baker Street’s sitting room. 

Mary’s happy to let it go on like that, to let the day slip behind the horizon and bleed into another night with Sherlock, but John’s not quite caught onto the game yet. 

“We should get back to our flat.” John’s heart obviously isn’t in it and Mary wonders why he bothers clinging to this fiction of what is _right_ and _proper_. 

Sherlock has been quiet all day. Not quiet enough for it to be an obvious pout, or for it to stand out as anything other than coming down from a case, but Mary knows better. She saw his face when he woke up in a well warmed bed and what her insinuations about their combined future did to him. 

She gives him a beat to answer back to John’s utterly useless comment about them leaving. Sherlock stays quiet and totally still in his chair. It appears that she still has to do everything for herself. 

“Why? We can stay here. Sherlock doesn’t mind.” There, she’s given him the perfect opening to join the conversation; really to continue the conversation she started with him that morning.

Sherlock flaps a hand in her general direction, too nonchalantly to be natural. “It’s fine. Stay or go.” 

_Coward_ , Mary thinks. 

John pats the arms of his chair, it is still his chair, and moves to stand. “Well, can’t stay here all night.” 

“Why not?” Mary’s question stalls John’s rise from the chair. He slowly sits back down. 

“Because we have a flat on the other side of London? Because this Sherlock’s home, not ours?” 

She wants Sherlock to step in, to give his approval of the change of situation along with hers, but he stays silent again. 

“Let’s stay again tonight. I’m too tired to go home.” It’s not true but John won’t catch on. Sherlock won’t care. 

Oh, but he does care. It’s been so obvious to Mary for so long that she forgets that Sherlock still thinks he’s in uncharted territory. She watches him tense and press his lips into a tight, thin line while they wait for John’s response. 

He looks back and forth between the two of them. First at Sherlock, then to Mary, and back again. John gives them both an easy, bemused smile as he settles back into his chair. “Okay, fine. Angelo’s for dinner then? Or do you want to stay in?” 

Sherlock’s smile is dazzling. “Angelo’s, if Mary’s up for it.”

She smiles back, as broadly as her boys are smiling at her. “Yeah, let’s go.” 

Hours later, with a belly full of pasta carbonara and head fuzzy from a half a glass of wine, she crawls back into the middle of Sherlock’s bed, leading Sherlock and John back to their places from last night as surely as if they were wearing invisible leashes. 

John curls behind her, arm tossed over her middle. Sherlock is on his back next to her, as he was the night before, but this time Sherlock’s fingers entwine with her own. They wrap around her knuckles gently and it can’t be a comfortable position for Sherlock to keep his arm in for long, but she appreciates the gesture. Mary’s sure John can’t see their joined hands from where he’s pressed behind her but she squeezes Sherlock’s fingers anyway. Part of this is for her too, after all.


	3. John

It’s the second morning in a row that John wakes up in bed with both his wife and his best friend, the three of them all sleeping peacefully together throughout the night. And it’s nowhere near as strange as John would have guessed it would be just a few days ago. But if they think they’re getting breakfast cooked for them every morning just because John’s the only true morning person among them, they have another thing coming. 

He thinks about getting up, moving into the sitting room or making some tea, but he can see Sherlock’s messy curls over Mary’s shoulder and she’s so warm against his chest. The comfort of having them both so near sucks away John’s desire to get out of bed. He can see Sherlock begin to stir, to burrow further into his pillow, and John decides to stay put. He drifts off again and thinks that, if he can be the last one out of bed, maybe Mary and Sherlock will make him breakfast today. 

The next time John opens his eyes, there’s no smell of bacon in the air but he is alone. The covers are thrown back and the pillow next to him has gone cold. 

John stretches out in Sherlock’s bed like he owns it and doesn’t that give him a little thrill down his spine? He has thought about waking up like this before, long before he even knew Mary, but his imagination was ever so innocent. 

He makes his way to the loo and takes his time getting ready, as if he still lives here. Though if he lived here he’d have fresh kit for today. Instead he settles on yesterday’s button down but leaves off the vest and jumper. 

Mary’s sitting at the kitchen table, holding the newspaper above Sherlock’s experiments as she flips through it. She’s managed a new dress for herself and her hair is still damp from the shower. Just how many clothes did she pack? Mrs. Hudson must have been doing her laundry while they were finishing up with Moriarty. 

John drops a kiss on the crown of her head. “What? No breakfast for me this morning?” 

Sherlock’s voice rumbles from the sitting room. “Mrs. Hudson should be bringing some up shortly.” 

John opens his mouth to shout back a smart arsed retort but Mrs. Hudson’s careful tread can be heard coming up the seventeen steps to their flat - to Sherlock’s flat. There’s no sense in thinking of 221b as home again. Those days are gone, even if John feels so happy and comfortable here that he can’t help but grin as Mrs. Hudson shuffles through the kitchen door with a tray full of eggs and toast. 

“Oh, it’s nice to see the flat so full again. Of course, it’ll be a little tight for awhile, especially when the baby comes, but it’ll only be until we get things… Oh dear.” John’s expression goes blank and he can hear Sherlock still in the sitting room. The beat of silence is thick between them. Mrs. Hudson redirects toward Mary. “You haven’t gotten them to agree yet, have you?” 

John can feel his face slipping into a crunch of confusion. “I’m sorry. Agree to what?” 

Mary’s doing that thing where she bites her lip but still tries to smile brightly, and Sherlock’s now hovering awkwardly in the sitting room doorway. 

“Mrs. Hudson and I thought it would be better if you and I moved in here.” There’s a hint of forced cheerfulness in Mary’s words, but John doesn’t even have time to parse what that could mean before Mrs. Hudson starts up again.

“It will be so lovely to have everyone back together again. A full and happy house.” 

“Too full. Baker Street’s not big enough for Mary and I to move in, plus a baby.” John beats down the image of the three of them waking up in Sherlock’s bed, just like the last two mornings, and maybe a bassinet in the corner. He can feel heat fan out across his cheeks and he takes a drink from the tea Mrs. Hudson puts in front of him to lose the blush in the rising steam. Some of those past daydreams float to the surface, now with Mary in a co-starring role. 

“Well, Mrs. Hudson and I were thinking about doing some renovations. We’ll have some builders in to gut 221c and remodel it into a flat for us.” Mary’s smiling over her own cup at him like this is a normal conversation, but John’s head is swimming. 

“Remodel 221c?” All he can envision is the moldy basement with Carl Power’s shoes sitting in the middle of the floor and the sound of Moriarty’s pips. “But… wh- how?” 

Mary turns serious, reaching out to lay her palm across his hand. “I have some money put away. I didn’t tell you before because then I’d have to explain how I got it. My old career was quite, ah, lucrative for awhile.” She pauses to squeeze his knuckles. “We could re-do 221c, make it really nice, and give ourselves a place to live that we’ll actually want to live in. And we’d be here with Sherlock.” 

Sherlock, who has been entirely too quiet during this whole conversation. John turns in his chair to get a better look at the spectre in the doorway. “You knew about this?”

“No.”

“But you deduced?” 

Sherlock nods, looking unsure, but unsure about what John cannot say. “Only this morning.” 

He smiles at Sherlock’s tentative admission, his first inclination always to reassure even if he doesn’t know why. “Bit slow for you.”

John expects an eye roll, a flounce back to the sofa, or at least a sarcastic comment but instead Sherlock swallows deliberately before saying, “I was distracted.”

John has no idea what to do with that so he turns away. There’s a tiny seed already germinating in the back of his mind. A blending of the two worlds he’s loved and missed together. But he feels the need to argue, because in their strange little group he’s grown used to taking the role of the reasonable person. He turns back to Mary, but still very, very aware of Sherlock’s anxious gaze on the back of his neck. “We’re about to have a baby. Even if we solve the space issue, Sherlock doesn’t want an infant around all the time. Can you even image a baby in Baker Street?” 

Mary doesn’t answer. She just looks at Sherlock over John’s head. 

John’s not sure he wants to look back at Sherlock. One derisive look or negative comment from Sherlock would wither the growing anticipation in John’s chest. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, to put faith in this plan he could never have conceived of, but the threat of Sherlock not wanting it, not wanting to try, is crushing. Even if the sleeping, _just sleeping_ , together stops and they go back to nothing more than flatmates, John needs it. he thinks back to those blissful days before Moriarty’s return, before Mary’s past came to light, when the three of them would sit for hours in Baker Street and just be together. It could be like that again. _It could be more._ John’s never been a coward, even when emotions are hard, so he does look back. 

Sherlock’s eyes are bright, his shrug too casual. “I don’t mind.”

“What?” 

“I don’t mind a ‘baby in Baker Street’, as you say.” 

Such immediate acceptance was the last thing John expected. He wants it, his chest is burning with how much he wants it, but he must be cautious about this. The stakes are just too high. “Sherlock, just baby proofing this place alone would be a nightmare. Taking proper care of a child changes everything.” 

“I did say I would be there for you always,” Sherlock snaps back. 

“Being there does not mean letting your best mate, his wife, and their new baby move in indefinitely!” 

Before Sherlock can whip out another snarky reply, Mary jumps back into the conversation. “It can mean that, if we want it to. And if having a baby is so life changing, why not do it with more people around? Mrs. Hudson’s game-”

“Oh, yes. Having a baby around would be lovely.” Mrs. Hudson calls from where she’s already started doing the washing up.

“-and Sherlock’s already been researching.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he steps a little more fully into the kitchen. “Have you been checking my browser history?” 

“I don’t have to.” Mary smiles sweetly. Sherlock and Mary stare each other down for a few moments, until Sherlock spins, dressing gown twisting around him, and stomps to the sofa. 

John watches him go until Mary reaches out and takes his hand. 

“Let’s just camp out here for awhile and see how it goes? We can pop home and pick up whatever we need for an extended stay. We don’t have to start renovations tomorrow or anything.” 

John finds himself nodding before Mary’s even finished. She’s always been persuasive. And it’s not like he needed much persuasion. He’s the one that asked Sherlock to sleep with them in the first place. If asked John would say that he had done it because Sherlock really did need to sleep, and that’s true but an even deeper truth is that John will take Sherlock Holmes anyway he can have him. Maybe he can have Sherlock, and Mary too, like this. If they can just make it work.


	4. Mary

Mary hustles John out the door as soon as their breakfast is finished. Sherlock needs time to think, to process, and he thinks best about emotional issues when he’s still and quiet. John needs motion and activity to distract him from overthinking. She’s always been good at figuring out what people need and providing it to them - particularly when she gets what she wants out of it. 

But it’s not like they don’t want this, too. They just need to realize it, to fully realize that they can have it and not just want it. 

She drags John the long way home, via tube and bus instead of just taking a cab, to give him more time. Even so, it still takes until most of their packing is done for John to bring it up.

“This isn’t going to work.” He’s standing in the bathroom doorway, electric razor in one hand and shaving kit in the other. 

“I think it will fit if you just push a bit.” She barely looks up from where she’s carefully rolling their extra clothes to be able to fit more in their duffle bags. 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” 

“Then what do you mean?” She does look up this time, stops rolling, and gives him just enough rope to hang himself. 

And John Watson has never been one to walk away from a deliberate trap, even if he sees it coming. He steps surely back into their bedroom. “Us, living with Sherlock. Especially with a new baby. You know what he’s like. He’ll drive us crazy or we’ll be too much. It’s just not going to work.” 

“Why is it always his fault that this won’t work? Sherlock seems quite keen, and so am I. You’re the only one thinking this is a bad idea. Even Mrs. Hudson is on board.” 

“You can’t use Mrs. Hudson as a measure of common sense.” 

Mary doesn’t respond to that. She stares John down, hands on hips. 

“You don’t know what he’s like, Mary.”

“Bullshit.” She rarely curses and John’s eyes widen a bit at the word. “I’ve known him for over a year. I’ve lived in his back pocket for most of that time because you live in his back pocket. You’re happy with him John, I’m happy with him, and he’s happy with us.”

Mary crosses the room and takes the razor and shaving kit from John’s hands. “There’s nothing that could happen with the three of us living together that would ruin your friendship with him, right?” She barely waits for John’s nod as she shuffles the small bottles and sundries around inside the shaving kit. “Right. We’ll be fine. We’ll be better than fine. We’ll be happy and our baby will be happy.” She manages to slide the razor into a space that nearly fits it and forces the zipper closed. “Sometimes you just have to make things fit, John.”


	5. Sherlock

John and Mary retreat back to their suburban hellhole to pack a few bags after breakfast. Sherlock declines to go with them. The thought of the two of them playing at normal, pretending to be less than they are, in that reasonably priced, _average_ prison is suffocating. 

Instead, Sherlock slaps two nicotine patches on his forearm and tries not to imagine every scenario which would lead to them not coming back. Not coming _home_. He warms a bit at the thought of Baker Street being a permanent home to all of them, not just a stop over or headquarters for John and Mary. 

He’s not going to think about the other thing. About going to sleep with them twice and waking up with them twice. How many times does it have to be before it becomes a pattern? Or a habit? Or even a certainty? 

Sherlock doesn’t have enough data to draw any conclusions, either for this situation or nights in shared beds in general. But he needs to keep his mind occupied else he will spin down that black hole of _John and Mary are never coming back. It was a hoax. A trick. They have abandoned you._

So, instead, he thinks of Mary’s soft fingers curled against his knuckles. He thinks of the way John’s hair looks when it’s rubbed against Sherlock’s pillow. The way John’s mouth goes slack when he’s sleeping and how Mary turns every hour or so to relieve pressure on her pregnant body. 

But mostly, he thinks about how much he wants to stay in that bed with them. 

It will take ages to renovate 221c. Mary has to know that. Mrs. Hudson certainly does. And obviously Mary will want to oversee the reconstruction of the downstairs flat. She won’t have the time or energy to do that for several months after the baby is born. Will she? Or will she rush to get the Watson family their own permanent place within Baker Street, instead of simply fitting themselves into Sherlock’s? 

It takes them hours to get back. Sherlock’s toes are squirming against the arm of the sofa in frustration when he finally, _finally_ , hears them shut the front door. Mary says something to Mrs. Hudson and John starts up the stairs carrying two bags. The bags are heavy. _Good._

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed when John pauses on the landing outside the sitting room door, debating on where to lay down his burden. Sherlock waits until he can hear Mary’s footsteps on the stairs. She’s slower, more careful than she was even a few days ago. 

John’s bed is still upstairs. He’s even used it a few times since Sherlock came back. There’s no reasons John and Mary couldn’t take the upstairs room. 

“Put them in my room,” Sherlock calls, voice hoarse from hours of silent contemplation. 

There’s a long pause from the landing but no conversation between the two. Sherlock can imagine Mary’s encouraging hand on the small of John’s back but that’s all the push she gives him. Sherlock smiles, eyes still closed, when he hears John turn down the hall to his bedroom. Not their bedroom, at least not yet. But if a pattern becomes a habit and then a certainty and then-

It’s Mary’s fingers stroking through his hair that brings his eyes snapping open. 

“You know what you’re getting into, right?” 

He doesn’t. Not really. Having friends, having something more than friends, is totally new to Sherlock. He’s not a man of faith but more than anything he believes in John and Mary. He knows they would never let him fall. And even if it came to that, he’s made bigger sacrifices for them. Still, he hates being at a disadvantage. “Yes.”

“Liar.” Her fingers curl around his ear and there’s an affectionate smile on her face. 

He stretches into her hand like a cat looking for cream. “Doesn’t matter. Irrelevant. I’ll work it out.” 

“I know you will.” Mary pulls back, fingers catching on his curls for a marvelous, agonizing split second, as John comes into the sitting room. “So will he.”

“And what about you?” 

“Oh, I’ve got it all figured out already. Didn’t you notice?” 

Sherlock hums and smiles up at Mary as she steps away from the sofa. 

“Notice what?” John asks as he settles into his chair. 

Mary steps behind the chair; with just a slight roll of Sherlock’s head he can see both of them. Mary brushes her fingertips through John’s hair, spiking it up before smoothing it down again with her palm. Sherlock’s own scalp tingles with the memory. The same fingers, same hand, but slightly different motions. Mary tailors her approach to their situation, to what each of them needs. 

“Nothing, love.” She bends as much as she’s able to press a kiss to the crown of John’s head. Sherlock wonders if he’d have gotten the same kiss if he’d been sitting in a more practical position. It’s not as if he and Mary haven’t given each other friendly pecks before but now the meaning is different. Could be different. He isn’t sure. 

Sherlock lets John and Mary’s hushed conversation lull him back into the comfort of deep thought.


	6. John

Sherlock stays under for hours. Long enough for John and Mary to eat dinner, watch some telly with Mary in John’s chair and John sitting on the floor near her feet, and for Mary to go to bed. John stays in the sitting room, watching the quiet rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. He lets himself consider, to really think about, what Mary is offering. Is that what Sherlock is offering too? His uncharacteristic hesitance on the matter makes John think there’s more to this for him than John first assumed. 

And that’s been the problem with this all along. John assumed things, Sherlock assumed things, and Mary came along to slap both of them about the back of the head. They’ll never be great communicators, any of them really, but they’ve gotten better. 

Not enough for John to go over there, shake Sherlock out of his trance, and declare that he has loved him since day one: loved him when he was alive and brilliant, loved him when he was dead and gone, loved him when John fell in love with Mary, loved him when he came back from the dead, and loved him everyday since. But maybe soon. 

“What time is it?” Sherlock’s rough voice rouses him from his daydreams. And how often does that happen around here, that Sherlock needs to pull him back to reality instead of the other way around?

John looks at his watch and scrubs a hand across his face. “A quarter to two.” 

“In the morning?” 

John looks pointedly at the darkened windows and Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“You should go to bed.”

“Yeah, Mary’s been in there for hours.” John rises from his armchair, knees creaking from all the time he sat there. He shuffles a bit but doesn’t make a move to Sherlock’s bed room. “Um, are you sleeping tonight?” John’s gut instinct was to ask if Sherlock was coming to bed, but that feels too close, too intimate. Tonight lacks the mix of post-case adrenaline and exhaustion. It feels much more awkward than it did just a few nights ago.

“Hmmm, no,” Sherlock hums and John feels it deep in his chest. “Brain work to do.” 

John fends off the affectionate urge to bend and press a kiss to Sherlock’s hair, or at least run his fingers through it like he’d seen Mary do earlier. Instead, he silently retreats to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He finds Mary fast asleep, curled on her side on the edge of the bed facing the door. John strips down to his vest and pants and slides in to curl behind her. She stirs a little as John wraps his arms around her and she settles against him. 

She’s more than stirring, John realizes. Mary’s pressing her arse into the cradle of his hips and _wriggling_. 

“What’s this then?” John presses a kiss to the back of her neck and breathes heavily there. 

Mary wriggles again and John’s arms tighten around her. It’s not really an attempt to stop her, but it’s not really an encouragement either. “A third-trimester induced need to get off?” 

John laughs and presses another kiss to Mary’s neck because he just can’t help himself. “I am not getting off in Sherlock’s bed.” 

“You don’t have to. Just me then.”

“No. Even if you keep wiggling like that, no.” 

“Why not? My wiggle not good enough anymore?” There’s nothing but amusement in her voice, possibly at John’s expense. 

“It’s just weird. It’s Sherlock’s bed.” 

“You’re going to do it sometime. Would it be less weird if Sherlock were here?” 

“Mary…” John’s not sure how to end that sentence. Not sure if he wants to chastise or encourage her. Maybe both? Is that even possible? 

She stops her subtle push back against his pelvis. She doesn’t move forward again, but at least she’s stopped with the increased pressure. “Okay, too much right now. I can wait.” 

John doesn’t say anything. This possibility, this certainty, is too new for him. And he has no idea how Sherlock might feel about a more physical relationship. But he _wants_.

“So, not even if I suck your cock?” Mary jokes. 

John laughs, he can’t help himself. “No, not even then, sorry.” 

Mary gives a dramatic sigh. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.” She shifts to be more comfortable in John’s arms. “Is his nibs coming to bed tonight?” 

Before John can answer, as if on cue, the quiet strains of the violin float through the walls. 

“I guess that answers that question,” Mary says. They listen to the soft, sweet song for a moment before Mary speaks up again. “It’s like he’s playing us a lullaby. Do you think he’ll do that for the baby once she comes?” 

John has to fight down the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I think he will.” 

Mary’s breathing quiets and she goes slack against John’s chest. The violin keeps playing as John drifts off to sleep too. 

John’s not sure how late it is when the bed dips behind him. He comes awake quickly, not having expected another person to join them at all that night. John tries to roll toward the newcomer and flails a bit. 

Sherlock’s hand is warm on the middle of his back. “It’s just me. Go back to sleep.” That warmth disappears and John instantly regrets it. 

“Thought you weren’t sleeping. Sofa get boring?” John tries to whisper as he settles again against Mary’s back. It’s hard to tell if she’s awake or not. 

“Something like that, yes.” Sherlock is quiet, more serious than John expected him to be. But it is far too late, and John is far too tired, to get into this now. Just being here, between both of them is enough for John. For tonight at least. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

“Goodnight, John.” A warm puff of air ghosts across John’s neck and it raises gooseflesh along his arms and belly. He shifts back slightly - not close enough to touch, but he likes just being closer. 

He falls asleep again with Mary in his arms and Sherlock’s heat flowing against his back.


	7. Mary

Her back is really starting to hurt now. It’s a dull ache that stretches between her hip bones. Pregnancy, especially this late in the game, comes with all sorts of aches and pains and Mary will just be happy when it’s over. She’s enjoyed it, most of it anyway, but enough is enough. She’s ready to move on to the next stage. 

And she’s been making excellent progress motivating her boys to that next stage, if she does say so herself. In the past week, John’s gone back to locum work at the surgery, Sherlock picked up a small case from Lestrade, and Mary’s focused on getting the upstairs bedroom set up as a temporary nursery, pending renovations to 221c. There had be no discussion, only a quiet acceptance of the plan that would keep the adults sharing a bedroom for at least a little while longer. 

She and John tore down, moved, and then reassembled the crib from their suburban home. Sherlock showed a vague interest in the reconstruction process but disappeared at the first sighting of a tiny allen wrench. 

In truth, everything is set up and ready to go. She just keeps fiddling with it: unfolding and refolding blankets and clothes, stacking nappies and wipes on the change table, and just sort of moving things around. Maybe this is what they mean by ‘nesting’.

“I think he’s nesting.” 

Mary spins as quickly as her stomach will allow her. John managed to sneak up the stairs without her noticing. Her reflexes are dulling. Both time and distraction will do that to a person. 

“Sherlock’s nesting?”

John wraps an arm around her shoulders from behind, which is pretty much the only place he can get an arm around her these days. He rests his head on her shoulder. “He keeps moving the bassinet around. From the bedroom to the sitting room and back again. He’s changed the blankets three times today. He just won’t stop fiddling with things.” 

Mary laughs out loud. Seems like fiddling is a universal symptom of nesting. “You need to run him. Show him it’s the good old days.” 

“I’m not sure he wants the good old days anymore.” John presses a smiling kiss to her hair. “I just want him to sit still for two bloody minutes.” 

“You could still get him to go out on a case. Distract him a bit.” 

John gives her shoulders a squeeze. “I might. He needs to do something. But I don’t want to start anything that he can’t finish quickly. Not with your due date so close.” 

Mary steps away and gives John a little push toward the door. “Go. I’ll be fine.” She is very certain not to mention the back pain. 

“Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can find for him.” 

Before John can get through the door, Mary hears Mycroft’s distinctive _rat-a-tat-tat_ against the front door. 

They both freeze. Mary calculates Sherlock’s mood, the level of tension that’s been simmering in the flat as they all come together, and Mycroft’s likely reason for visiting. He’s barely three steps up the staircase before she’s waving her hands at John.

“Go!” 

It takes John a moment, two more steps for Mycroft, before he squares his shoulders and spins to take the stairs down to the sitting room two at a time. 

Mary tosses down the onesies she’d been folding and heads down the stairs. She’s much slower than John, and has to brace herself with a hand against the wall. She hasn’t seen her feet in weeks and even well-known stairs can be treacherous. 

By the time she makes it to the sitting room, it’s too late. Mycroft is stretched out in John’s chair, taking over the space like it’s rightfully his to deliberately bristle all three of them. Mycroft looks to her, expression unchanging but disdain clear nonetheless. 

Sherlock nearly growls and John’s hands tighten into fists. Maybe she should have stayed upstairs. 

“I need a cuppa. Anyone else?” Mary shuffles through to the kitchen without even waiting for an answer. Let the boys handle this one on their own. She’s tired and the pain in her back is becoming increasingly more sharp and harder to ignore. 

She fills the kettle, clicks it on, and listens to the water bubble and grow hot. She can’t hear anything coming from the next room but no shouts or crashes yet, so that’s good at least. John’s rage always starts quiet and cold while Sherlock is equally likely to make noise as he is to turn in on himself. 

Two cups of tea, one white and one black, and she walks carefully back to the sitting room. The white goes to Sherlock. She presses her fingers over his before letting go, and makes sure she’s angled so Mycroft can’t miss it. Sherlock doesn’t even smirk at his brother. 

The black tea goes to John, and Mary carefully repeats the same action when she hands it over. Let Mycroft see they’re both equal to her. Different but the same, and essential to what she’s trying to build here in 221b. 

She lowers herself carefully to the sofa beside John and no one comments on her own lack of tea. 

“Well, if this is the downfall you’ve chosen for yourself, there’s little else I can say, brother mine.” Mary’s not sure he’s said anything at all. The Holmes brothers may just have sat there throwing vicious looks at one another with John as a silent referee between them. Mycroft rises from John’s chair gracefully and his umbrella makes a dull tapping noise against the floor. 

“But really, Sherlock. Do you honestly think you can be a ‘family man’?” Mycroft’s voice drips with sarcasm and incredulity. Holmeses have always been good at the parting shot and this one does not miss its mark. Sherlock remains silent as Mycroft retreats out of Baker Street. 

Everyone stays exactly where they are until the click of the front door closing behind Mycroft echos through the flat like a gunshot. Both John and Sherlock shoot to their feet. 

John paces, sputtering mad. “How dare he barge in here like this and comment on- Sherlock! Did he say anything? Anything before I got down here I mean? What a fucking prat.” He keeps going, pacing and cursing his way to the fireplace and back. Mary tunes him out and focuses her attention on Sherlock. 

He stands by the window, just barely pulling the curtain aside with his outstretched index finger. Where John is loud in his righteous anger, Sherlock is quiet. He’s turning in and she can’t have that right now. 

“Sherlock.” 

Mary gives him a moment but there’s no answer. Sherlock stays exactly where he is even though Mycroft’s car must be long gone. John’s stopped pacing and Mary motions for him to help her up from the sofa. 

John hauls her up by her elbows and she rubs both hands across her lower back when she gets her feet under her. The pain that started there hours ago now radiates out, through her midsection and toward her belly button. She doesn’t have much time to fix this. 

“Sherlock?” She wraps light fingers around his elbow and pulls his arm away from the curtain. “Are you okay?” 

Sherlock gives a jerky nod. “I’m fine.” He drops his arm and Mary slides her fingers into his. It wasn’t his intention but he doesn’t pull away. She can feel John standing close behind her. 

“You’re not fine, but I don’t want you to listen to Mycroft. He’s not part of what we have here and he doesn’t understand.” 

It takes a moment of silence between them before Sherlock raises their joined hands to eye level. “What do we have here?” 

He’s uncertain. She can see it in his carefully cool expression and feel it in the slight tremor in his hand. John takes another step toward them. 

“Maybe we haven’t been as explicit as we should have been.” Mary’s not sure how to finish that thought. She hasn’t even been explicit with John. He doesn’t talk out his feelings, and normally Sherlock doesn't either. She thought they could just go as they had been and progress as they would. This is a hiccup she hadn’t foreseen. 

“I have no fear of commitment or of being ‘a family man’, as Mycroft so obnoxiously put it, but I cannot give so much of myself unless I am sure it is welcome.” Sherlock’s gaze is cast down to where he’s lowered their joined hands against his chest. She underestimated Sherlock’s need for boundaries, for clearly laid out roles. He doesn’t often need them but when he does, the need is strong. It’s like the juxtaposition between the messy sitting room and the neatly maintained bedroom. Outwardly, Sherlock is chaotic and disrespectful of rules but inwardly everything is in its place. 

She knows John, knows what he wants even without the conversation between just the two of them that Sherlock obviously needs to have now. John will follow her lead. 

“John and I want you. As a friend, as a lover, as someone to parent with us. We want whatever you want to give us.” Mary startles a bit when John lays a hand against her back, right where that growing pain begins. She can feel his breath on the shell of her ear. Right behind her to rush into danger like a brave soldier. 

Sherlock stares over her head. He must be staring at John, searching and cataloging something in his face. Mary gives them this moment. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t try to see what they are sharing, or what Sherlock needs to make this final step. 

Whatever he needs, he must see it in John’s eyes because he looks back to Mary and gives her hand a squeeze. 

“Yes. That’s what I want too. I said as much at your wedding.” Sherlock shuffles a little but doesn’t drop Mary’s hand. His unease in social situations, even when all the cards are on the table, makes Mary’s heart clench. “As long as we’re clear.” 

John lets loose a nervous giggle from behind her. “You just want to know what the boundaries are so you can push them.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” And there are her boys again. Joking and pushing buttons instead of offering deep statements of feeling. She’s better at words than the rest of them but at their core, they are all people of action. 

Mary tugs Sherlock forward and he has to have deduced what is coming before her lips press against his. John is still at her back and she hears him inhale sharply. The kiss is warm and dry, chaste but with promise. Sherlock keeps their joined hands pressed between them so that his knuckles brush the curve of Mary’s breast. That gentle caress is enough to make Mary open her mouth and slide her tongue across Sherlock’s bottom lip. He nips at the corner of her mouth as he pulls back, dropping her hand and shooting a worried look toward John. 

John’s hand is rubbing tiny circles low on Mary’s back. It’s more soothing than erotic but Mary loves it either way. 

“That is one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. And don’t you dare feel guilty about it.” John steps around Mary and pulls Sherlock into his own kiss. And Mary knows exactly what he means. This is definitely the hottest thing she has ever seen. The way John’s fingers dip into Sherlock’s curls and the way their lips move together send a thrum of desire through Mary. The next few months of a new baby and limited to no sex are going to be torturous. Maybe they’ll at least let her watch a bit. 

“I have been waiting a very long time to do that,” John says as he pulls back, leaving his fingertips in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Now who’s ignoring boundaries?” Sherlock says, but there’s no censure in his voice. 

John gives him a light peck on the lips and Mary smiles. “No boundaries between us. Didn’t we just agree on that?” 

Sherlock looks toward Mary, pale eyes glowing in the fading light of Baker Street. “Yes, we did.” 

And as much as she hates to lose this moment, other more pressing concerns are making themselves known. Or herself known, really. 

“Sherlock, are you sure you want to be part of this family, even with a baby on the way?” Mary keeps her voice level even as another wave of pain rolls across her abdomen. 

“Yes, absolutely.” He doesn’t waiver. There’s no hesitation. 

“Good. Because that’s going to happen sooner rather than later.”

“What?” John nearly shouts but Sherlock just blinks owlishly. How she loves them both. 

“Contractions are… seven? six, maybe? minutes apart. Been going on for about three hours now.” 

“You should have said something-”

“In this traffic a cab will take-”

They’re both speaking at once and she has to wave them both silent. “John, get my bag from the wardrobe. Sherlock, help me downstairs and hail us a cab.” 

Sharp, simple directions get them both moving. John heads toward the bedroom and Sherlock grabs both their coats and wraps an arm around Mary’s waist to ease her down the stairs. They both just need a little help to focus sometimes.


	8. Sherlock

Hospitals are terrible. They have always been terrible and Sherlock cannot believe that he is willingly pacing the hallway as Mary and John are tucked behind a closed door just a few feet away. He didn’t see himself here at all. Maybe a phone call after the baby was born, or a blurry picture sent from John’s phone, but Sherlock never imagined himself a part of this. Never allowed himself to imagine it, really. 

He’s bullied the nurses into letting him past the sterile, family friendly waiting room to the hallway Mary’s room is on. He walks up and down, never straying far from the door, but not trying to muscle his way inside either. 

He doesn’t stop pacing until John comes out. They haven’t been at the hospital long but John’s tired, the bags under his eyes are more pronounced. It’s obvious that the baby hasn’t been born yet. John would show joy or at least relief, not further stress. Sherlock's feet feel as if they are sinking into wet concrete. 

“Is something wrong? Is Mary all right?” He’s never been good at hiding panic, not when he truly feels it, and he doesn't even try now. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Everything is going perfectly.”

Sherlock sags against the wall across from the closed door. “Then why aren’t you in there with her?” 

“She wants you.”

Sherlock’s heart stutters a bit in his chest. It’s not that he’s opposed to being in the birthing room but he’s not sure he wants it either. It’s almost entirely a black box to him and anything could go wrong or at least differently than it should. Mary and John are medical professionals, and both used to trauma and the unexpected from their previous occupations. 

He glances toward the nurse's station. “I’m not sure they’ll allow-”

“They’ll allow just about anything Mary wants. She can have two people in there and she wants you, too.” John leans against the wall next to Sherlock, brushing their shoulders together. “I thought you liked to push boundaries?” 

Are there any boundaries left between them? In name only, surely. Just those actions they haven’t had time to explore, the words they haven’t had the time to say. But those aren’t boundaries anymore. They are eventualities. Sherlock looks at John and find the other man already staring at him. Sherlock loves him so much it feels like his ribs will crack from the pressure of his expanding heart. 

He leans further into John’s shoulder. “All right. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

The nurse looking over some machine raises an eyebrow when John brings Sherlock back in, leading him as surely as if they were holding hands, but doesn’t say anything. It might be because Mary doesn’t give her the chance. 

“Oh, good. He convinced you to stop slinking about outside.” She reaches out a hand and waves him quickly over to her shoulder. “Eyes up here please. I’d like to keep my feminine mystique intact. For now.” She winks at him and he’s sure he hears the nurse cover a gasp with a very fake cough. 

He kisses Mary’s knuckles, just to further shock the nurse. Mary smiles at him because she knows exactly what he’s doing. He pulls her hand away from his lips but doesn’t let go. “This must not be as hard as everyone says if you’re still able to make jokes.” 

“Defensive mechanism.” 

“She hasn’t been funny in hours,” John says. “Thank God you’re here to inspire her.” John’s smile is genuine and relaxed as he takes his post by Mary’s other shoulder. He smooths a hand over her hair. Mary smiles at John and squeezes Sherlock’s hand. It’s the happiest Sherlock can remember being in a very long time. 

“She’s taking her time. Waiting for a grand entrance.” Mary grimaces but she’s not even pushing yet. 

“Well, we’re all here now so I’m sure she’ll be along soon.” Both John and Mary look at him in shock. It really is the type of saccharine, reassuring thing John would say to someone on a case or that Mrs. Hudson would force on them after a trying day. But Sherlock can’t help himself. It seems like the thing to say. 

Like always, he’s right. A doctor comes and tells Mary to push and soon he’s putting a very tiny bundle in her arms. They let John cut the umbilical cord, a sign of professional respect perhaps, even if his hands did shake a bit. 

That red-faced, squirming, screaming bundle gets passed from Mary to John and then to Sherlock. He doesn’t know how to hold her. He understands the logistics of it, to support her head in the palm of his hand and to rest her body along his forearm, but he’s not sure how to make it comfortable. It looked so natural when Mary and John did it. 

The back of her head, covered in downy blonde hair, is soft against his palm. She’s so tiny. Her eyes are blue, but John says they’ll likely get darker than they are now. Sherlock hopes they don’t change. Right now they are perfectly between John and Mary’s own shades of blue. 

She’s calm in his arms for a few long moments before she goes all red and fussy again. He rocks her a bit, without even realizing he’s doing it. 

“Pass her over. She’s probably hungry.” John helps Mary sit up a little straighter in her bed as Sherlock hands over the baby. It looks natural, the way Mary cradles her to her chest. Much more natural than Sherlock felt with the baby in his arms. 

“Hello Gloria. Are you hungry?” Mary coos. 

Sherlock looks to John in shock. “You’ve chosen a name?” They hadn’t said anything. 

John is all smiles and has been since his, _their_ , daughter made her way into the world. He rests his hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Yeah, we wanted to surprise you. Gloria Scott Watson. A name for each of us.” John gives a firm squeeze and heat flows across Sherlock’s shoulders. “We decided that much before… well, before this.” John smiles up at Sherlock, then down to Mary. 

“Gloria?” It takes a moment to sink in. Sherlock throws his hands up, dislodging John from his side. “A.G.R.A! Of course. I should have-”

“Guessed?” John cuts him off, laughing.

“No. I should have deduced.” He’s not offended. Not really. How can he be offended when John is laughing, Mary is smiling, and tiny Gloria Scott Watson is tucked peacefully against her mother’s breast?

“You couldn’t have deduced. And you won’t deduce, or guess, the rest. Understand?” Mary’s still smiling but she’s serious. He’s never felt the insatiable curiosity to pick Mary apart - not to impress her, not to lay her bare in front of John, and not even just to know. The rest of her name can stay a secret for the rest of their lives. 

He just nods. Mary knows what he means. 

“Having a baby is exhausting.” Mary lets her eyes sink closed and her head relax on the pillows. The nurse reappears as if called by Mary’s very need for rest and moves Gloria to a bassinet nearby before coming back to check on Mary. 

John leans over to kiss Mary’s forehead while the nurse bustles near them. “You rest. We’ll keep ourselves busy for a while.” 

“Love you,” Mary says, catching John’s hand as he pulls away. Sherlock bends down to leave a matching kiss on her brow. “And you.” 

Mary’s eyes are still closed and she look at least half asleep when Sherlock steps back. It’s still new; not so much the feelings but the permission to verbalize them. Mary’s leading the way yet again. Sherlock only moves away from the bed when John tangles their fingers together and tugs. 

“Come on. Let the Watson women sleep. We’ll go get some tea. She’ll want some when she wakes up anyway.” 

John doesn’t drop his hand until they reach the hospital canteen and Sherlock has never felt so utterly loved in all his life.


	9. John

He has plaster in his hair. He knows he has plaster in his hair and old paint chips sticking to his sweaty skin. Mary and Sherlock talked him into extending his leave from the clinic to oversee the renovations to 221c. Mary is still taking primary care of Gloria, even though he knows Sherlock has told Lestrade not to bother him with anything less than an eight, and Sherlock, cases or not, would never lower himself to supervising a team of builders in the basement. 

Even if it feels like John is doing this mostly for Sherlock. Their renovation plans changed drastically while they waited for Mary and Gloria to come home from hospital. They had plenty of time to talk between the few good friends who stopped by to wish them well. 

They agreed to give up any illusion of making 221c into the Watson household. 221b was their home and always would be. John, Sherlock, and Mary will keep the downstairs bedroom as theirs and the upstairs will stay Gloria’s room. 221c is still getting a makeover but instead of a living space it will become a dedicated lab space and client meeting room for Sherlock.

The lab space was really in the interest of health and safety for Gloria, especially as she grows and becomes more mobile. John admits that watching Sherlock special order a state of the art refrigerator and chest freezer for the new lab does a lot for his own piece of mind about what will be living in their own kitchen from now on. 

He expected Sherlock to keep taking clients in 221b - the idea of adding a sitting room to 221c never crossed his mind. Sherlock had thrown it into the plans, insisting that he didn’t want certain clients to come in contact with Gloria. John fully expects him to grow lazy and start seeing people in 221b again but John will stand firm on letting any more experiments up the stairs. 

Now if he could just get Sherlock to come down the stairs at all. 

Instead, he finds Sherlock, still in his pajamas, walking Gloria back and forth in front of the sitting room windows while Mary cooks dinner in the kitchen. The baby coos happily while Sherlock babbles something about footprint analysis at her. It’s almost enough to quell John’s annoyance. 

“You know, you could come down stairs and help a bit. It is your lab.” 

Sherlock doesn’t even look up. “Can’t. Was watching the baby.” 

“I’m sure Mary would have taken her on alone for an hour or so, handful that she is.” 

“Couldn’t possibly. We’re working on a forensics lecture. It could be critical to cases someday.” 

John steps in Sherlock’s path, in part to make Sherlock stop walking but mostly to take a closer look at his daughter for the first time in hours. Sherlock refuses to use the baby sling unless he absolutely has to have his hands free. He says he prefers to hold Gloria in his hands and feel the weight of her. Something about daily measures of growth but John knows that’s bollocks. Sherlock’s just too enamored to let go. 

“Are you already planning on using our daughter on cases before she even hits primary school?” 

Sherlock’s smile is incandescent. “Yes!” 

John wants to protest but ends up laughing instead. “Yeah, we’ll see about that won’t we?” 

Sherlock is beaming, first at John then down at Gloria nestled against his chest. Seeing Sherlock so obviously in love with John’s child, a child that there is no logical reason he would love, that he may not have loved if Moriarty hadn’t torn them apart and brought them back together again, makes John’s chest ache. Sherlock is beautiful like this, and suddenly John wants nothing else but to put Gloria down for nap and drag Sherlock to the bedroom. 

They’ve been taking things slowly, partly in consideration for Mary’s recovery and partly because this is new to all of them. John knows it’s impossible for them to fuck it up, but they can take their time, and make careful decisions, to make sure things go smoothly. 

John is just about to say _fuck it_ and snog Sherlock good and hard when Mary emerges from the kitchen. 

“Stop bickering like an old married couple.” She turns her attention to John. “You should wash up. Greg is coming over for dinner.” 

“You actually made dinner?” John is a little shocked. Baking she can do, and does really well, but a meal is more of a toss up. 

“Yes, and if it’s shit we’ll just order Thai.” She reaches out to take the baby from Sherlock. “Is your lecture at a good stopping point, professor? I’ll feed her and get her put down while the roast finishes up.” 

Sherlock moves Gloria into Mary’s outstretched arms in a well-practiced movement. “We can pause for today. Tomorrow we’re moving on to bullet trajectories.” 

“No, tomorrow you’re supervising the builders installing a fume hood in your new lab.” John wants to be irritated about it but he just can’t manage. He turns to retreat down the hall to the shower but Mary catches his arm with her free hand. 

“Your wife, who you cruelly abandoned most of the day, would like a kiss while you're all sweaty and sexy.” 

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses her hard and long, then wipes a speck of plaster from her check. “If I knew DIY did it for you, I’d have put up some shelves or something.” 

For good measure he snogs Sherlock just as thoroughly before walking to the bathroom. Before John pulls the door closed for his well deserved hot shower, he hears Sherlock’s indignant voice float down the hall. 

“Did he get plaster chips on my face?” 

Mary just laughs, and it feels like John Watson has gotten everything he never knew he wanted.


End file.
